Paint Me a Monster, page 13
Can’t wait to hear from you.
Love, Rinnie
P.S. This is what I have used up or replaced. Toothpaste, soap, hair elastics (I lost them), stamps, and batteries for my flashlight.
DO YOU MISS ME?
Dear Mom,
Please write to me. My mailbox is collecting spiders and dead flies.
Love, Rinnie.
P.S. I’ve read all my comic books and am saving them for Evan to read.
DO I MISS YOU?
Yes, I miss everything about you, Katawauk: the smell of pine trees after the rain, walking on soft brown pine needles, the lake shimmering in the sunset, canoeing, sailing, and even diving into your way-too-cold water. I miss sitting on the big rock next to the canoe house—my pew—my place to listen to the waves pull themselves from the lake onto my feet, sponging my ankles, and the owls that hoot at night while the bats dart overhead.
Yes, I miss you. The friendships you offer, the teamwork you insist on, and your opportunities to learn, practice, and become skilled at things like archery, tennis, and riding. And you gave me the chance to discover a different life. I really miss you.
RITUAL
In the dark of night, under the covers, I lie back on the mattress. My pillows are above my head. I put my hands on my diaphragm and touch my ribs. “One, two, three. . . .”
I count as I feel each one. My hands follow the curve of my torso, which slants downward like a sledding hill. My hands stop when they reach the flatlands—the sunken valley between my pelvic bones. The bones rise from my abdomen like high, steep hills. I turn on my right side and place my right arm under my head. My left hand finds the circumference of my upper right arm. The measurement is unchanged. My hand still wraps around the top of my arm with ease. It’s time to close my eyes. It’s time for good dreams.
NOTE to MYSELF
Today, Verna saw me wrapped in a bath towel. She came to my room to put my clean clothes away. She looked at my shoulders and legs and exclaimed, “Where’s your cushioning girl? Your face is looking like it needs some blowing up! If you’re plannin’ to Chanukah shop with your sister, you’re gonna need long underwear to warm those skinny legs.”
I took it as a compliment. I’m smiling.
SOAPSUDS
Now that Dad Barry is gone, Mom says, “There’s no reason to keep Emmy here at night when you girls can cook dinner and clean up afterward. You can stay up later to complete your homework.”
Mom has no idea how much work the teachers pour on in the beginning of the year. They must think students don’t need sleep. I think it’s a law at Cincinnati Girls’ School (CGS), the private school we attend, that girls have at least five hours of homework a night, which means by the time we grab a snack after school, prepare dinner, eat, and clean up, we’ll get to bed by midnight.
Liz and I make an efficiency plan. I cook. Liz sets the table, fills the water glasses, and lends me a hand. We both clear the dishes, wash, dry, and put them away, wipe down the counters, throw the napkins down the chute, shake out the tablecloth, and sweep the floor. Mom can’t figure out what takes us so long, and we don’t tell her. We take our time with the dishwashing part.
Our time may be hijacked but not our partnership.
Liz is the dishwashing lady in the TV commercial that says, “The plate’s so clean, I can see myself.” She holds the plate like a mirror and angles it to catch the light.
I do the rinsing. My hands plunge into the water, slosh it around, and clutch a clean plate. “My hands are so soft . . . they could be mistaken for a baby’s behind,” I trill.
Mom makes this a job. Liz and I make it our half hour of fame.
JACK
The first time I hear Jack’s voice, I want to strangle him.
“Go, shorty, man on your tail . . . pass, pass . . . move those legs!”
His voice chases me up and down Cincinnati Girls’ School’s hockey field, and I bolt. I’m left wing because I’m fast, but not faster than the speed of sound. Who is that? Why is he picking on me?
“Go shorty, GO!” prods his voice.
Guys from Cincinnati Prep Academy for Boys often come by after school to watch our intramural games. After that game, Jack shows up every time we play. One day after a game, he sticks a gold star on my forehead.
“You deserve this,” he says. “You shine.” I bite my lip and smile.
It’s not hockey season anymore. Now I play basketball in gym. But Jack still gives me stars, and now he shines for me.
NOTE to MYSELF
I left lunch on the counter at home. School served cheese-burgers with baked beans . . . again! Potato chips, cinnamon applesauce—the kind made by adding Red Hots candy. Beans and cinnamon applesauce on the DO NOT EAT LIST I made as a guide. This must be a Halloween meal—food disguised as good for you—too many carbohydrates, too many calories. I took the cheeseburger out of the bun and squeezed it between two napkins to get rid of grease—gross but effective.
I’M HERE TOO
The screaming wakes me.
Please, please let Liz be in bed. Make it so it isn’t happening again. Let her sleep. The ranting grows louder.
“You damn kids! I can’t think straight, between you and your grandfather.”
I walk the hall to Liz’s room. The bed sheets are flung back, signaling a hasty exit.
Why doesn’t Mom wake me? I knock on Mom’s door, blocking out the muffled tirade about life’s hardships. “Please let me come in. What’s wrong?”
“Go back to bed,” Mom snaps.
“Liz is in there. She’s always there, but you never wake me.”
I put my ear to the door and hear, “Damn lawyer . . . Pop Pop calls him, the lawyer calls me, and I have to call them both. It’s driving me crazy. You kids don’t cooperate. . . .”
Big sobs. I rattle the knob, more sobs. Mom is crying, and Liz’s voice is slow. “It’s late. I’m tired Mom.”
“Let me in. I can help,” I plead.
“Shut up! Go to bed! It’s 3:00 a.m.”
“The noise woke me, let me in.”
Liz opens the door, slack-bodied. “I can’t take anymore. It’s been hours. I’m going to bed.”
“Nobody cares,” Mom says. “If I weren’t here, you girls wouldn’t notice. It doesn’t matter if I’m alive or dead.”
“Good night, Mom! I have school tomorrow,” Liz goes to her room. I help her remake her bed.
“Damn it. All you think about is yourselves,” Mom barks.
“Mom always wakes you. She never wants me.”
“You’re lucky,” Liz says. “I wish she’d let me sleep. Go to bed.” She rolls over and pulls the sheets around her head. I cross back to Mom’s room.
“Mom? Mom? Goodnight, Mom.”
“Nobody cares,” she cries, shutting the door.
November isn’t a month to be thankful for.
TWO POEMS
POEM NUMBER ONE
If
Mom
is right,
the best thing about me
is
my hair.
I’m
lacking
charm.
Painted instead
with strokes of
selfishness, stupidity, troublemaking.
What to do?
Hide
the flaw.
Decorate
the surface.
Streak hair, reduce waist, sculpt limbs.
Looking good.
I’m
dressed to flirt,
to tease,
to please.
Mannequin,
me.
POEM NUMBER TWO
Every day,
Every night,
I go to war.
Against myself.
Eat, Whack!
Binge, Stab!
Starve, Thump!
Ambushed by thought.
“Let me alone,
I’ve suffered enough,”
I cry to my master.
My regiment of Rules
rush in,
Double-edged swords in hand.
“Follow us. We’ll protect you.”
And when I don’t,
rules cut me down.
“Liar. Slacker. Weakling!” they yell.
I crawl back,
wounded.
And beg to start again.
I am Rule’s prisoner.
CHILLS
There’s an algebra exam tomorrow, and I have to review with Mrs. Patrick, my math teacher.
“I’ll hurry,” I promise Liz.
This shouldn’t take longer than finding x to the 9th exponential.
“Follow? Follow?” I say mimicking Mrs. Patrick. Each time Mrs. Patrick writes an algebraic equation on the board and gives an example of how it works, “Follow? Follow?” follows. She’s her own multiplication table. Liz had Mrs. Patrick last year, and we both had her the year before. That’s a lot of following, but I’m still lost.
“OK. I’ll wait for you in the library and do homework.”
By the time we walk home from school, Verna’s gone.
“Rinnie, it’s your turn to go upstairs first,” Liz says.
“Come with me. I’ll look first, but come with me.” The house is quiet. Emmy hasn’t worked here for months. “Maybe she’s sleeping.” I cross my fingers. Liz stands behind me, one hand over her mouth.
I try not to think. Instead, I pray, turn the knob, open the door, sweating. We do this every day. It’s a noose that never loosens.
No blood, no pills, no body. “Mom’s not here,” I say, letting go a deep breath.
“Good,” Liz says. “We’re good until tomorrow.”
ONE MORE POEM
Eighth, ninth, or tenth grade,
Marbles move beneath my feet
I try to balance,
Imperfectly.
MONDAY MORNING
“If we had to decide what to wear every morning, you’d never get to school on time,” I tell Liz.
“Then I guess it’s a good thing we have to wear tunics,” she says, pulling on the blue potato sack dress our headmaster calls a uniform. Liz fools around with the sash, tying a bow with equal openings for each loop.
Why does she care how her bow looks? There aren’t any boys to look good for.
“I’ll bet you can wrap your sash around you twice,” says Liz.
I ignore her, though it might be true.
My backpack hunches my shoulders when I sling it on my back. I have homework and books in every subject to lug to school.
“We’d better walk to school fast. It looks like it’s going to rain,” I answer.
“Our backpacks will get soaked,” Liz says. “Take a big umbrella.”
“I weighed my backpack last night. There are thirty pounds of books inside,” I say, grunting at the thought of having to carry one more thing.
Mom’s voice trails from the stairway, “I have to go out this morning. Get in the car. I’ll drop you off.”
“Wow! Really? Thanks,” I say.
Verna hands us umbrellas and whispers, “Don’t know what makes this day so special.”
I get to the car first and sit next to Mom.
“Just in time, it’s starting to precipitate,” Liz says.
I like the preciseness of the word pre-cip-i-tate. Mental note—good word to use.
The mile-and-a-half drive to school takes only a few minutes—but it’s long enough to know Mom is in a bad mood.
“Don’t expect this tomorrow. Walking to school is good for you. It helps your brain think better,” she says, her face as stern as her voice. “I swear, someone might think you’d melt in the rain. OK, girls, we’re here. Out!”
Liz, drags her backpack out of the car, slings it over her shoulder, and opens her umbrella.
“Hurry up, Rinnie,” Mom says, as if she has to go to the bathroom. I turn to say good-bye when Mom hurls her fist into my stomach. My chest lurches toward my legs and severs the space for air or words. I stumble out of the car, and Mom steps on the gas and heads off.
“Ooh, oohh,” I moan, gasping for breath.
“What happened?” Liz asks.
I shrug and struggle to keep the muscles in my face still so the tears won’t leave my eyes.
Liz balances her backpack, the umbrella, and me, and the two of us stagger up the path. Liz’s body trembles next to mine.
“What did you do?” she says again.
I might come apart and wrap my arms around my body like packing tape. “N-N-Nothing. Why did Mom punch me?”
“I don’t know, Ace,” my sister says. “Are you OK?”
“It hurts . . . hard to breathe . . . walk in front of me, just in case I cry.” This is a secret I want to keep to myself.
FAMILY SECRET
At night, when it is dark, I pray.
“Mrs. Kane, please call the police. Mom won’t stop screaming at me. You must be able to hear it.” I will myself into my neighbor’s life. “Look in our window, see Mom act crazy.” I don’t know the words that describe Mom’s craziness. It’s bad enough to ask the neighbor to help me in my prayers. To name what Mom does would be complete betrayal. And that is unforgivable.
“Please call the police. Please get help,” I cry.
Hidden inside lives my fantasy. Mrs. Kane invites me to dinner in her cluttered, just-baked-bread-smelling house. Her kids and I do our homework together, and I fall asleep on the sofa. She doesn’t make me go home. I stay all night and dream of good things—kite flying, a trip to the zoo, blowing bubbles. The glare of my overhead light and Mom’s swearing and raving can’t wake me up. The night with Mrs. Kane is homey, happy, and safe.
But Mrs. Kane doesn’t look in our windows, or call the police, or invite me to dinner. I listen to Mom complain about me. Liz is away at a month-long program in London to study literature and theater arts. She got lucky.
The polish on Mom’s nails doesn’t shield their sharpness. Ten pits form where Mom clutches my arms. Her head is so close to mine, the whites of her eyes are wiped out by blue. Jackhammer jaws spew cuss after cuss at me. Am I supposed to split apart?
My ears hurt; so do my arms. Her grip is too tight to break without deepening the pits. I blink my right eye and then the left, right eye, left eye, right eye, left eye, slowly like the signal of an oncoming train; one blink after another.
“Stop that!” she says.
“Stop what?”
“You know what!”
I tilt my head as if I don’t know what she means. Her hands squeeze tighter around my arms. And I blink one eye and then the other. Blink. Blink. Blink. I hope this will distract her, make her go away.
“Goddammit, STOP IT!”
Mom loosens her grip and drops my arms.
“To hell with you,” she says, storming off.
The blinking worked, though her temper ignited fire in her fingers and branded me, black and blue. It is our colorful secret.
Once I told Gaga and Pop Pop about Mom. I told them she slaps my ears and makes them ring. “I’m afraid of losing my hearing,” I said. I told them that she twists my arms behind me and yanks my shoulders, and once hit me with a belt. Pop Pop looked at Gaga.
“Rose wouldn’t do such a thing,” Gaga says, turning away. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating, and I’m disappointed you would say such a thing.”
Courage has left me, and I’m mute. My family doesn’t believe me. There is no one I can tell. Betrayal is unforgivable. What would family friends like the governor and the mayor think? It’s our little secret.
BEAUTY
Like spring, I’m emerging. I have cheekbones. Liz says my head is so thin it looks like it’s shrinking, but I see cheekbones. I like the way my face feels when I stroke downward from my forehead to my jaw. The gentle glide of my hand hitting moguls of bone and hollows of skin is smooth. My fingers drip like syrup off the ridges.
The V made by the bones at the bottom of my neck makes a perfect nook for my chin. When I press my head into the nook, there is no double chin—no extra roll of skin.
I like the way my arms cut into my shoulders and bulge at the bone. I like that my lower arm and upper arm are nearly the same size. Nothing to hide. I’d be a bad magician.
“Nothing to hide up my sleeve,” I’d say.
It feels good to press my leg into my torso when I raise my leg to shave in the shower. There is no squishy stomach to get in the way, just a smooth highway of skin against my leg.
But when I look at the top of my legs, I see tree trunks—thick stumpy tree trunks. My pants say petite, but it isn’t true. I hate my legs. I hate my tree trunk legs. I hate the muscular way they look from tennis and riding. Why couldn’t I have the kind of muscles that don’t stick out, like Alana and Liz? I’ll go for another jog. No more dark meat chicken. It’s fattening.
ELEVENTH GRADE
“You wanted to see me?” I say to Mr. Heuland, my English teacher.
He sits on the edge of his desk and ruffles his hand through his hair. His mouth opens to speak, but instead he clears his throat and cleans his eyeglasses on his nubby sweater. The open window blows autumn into his office.
“Your essay on The Scarlet Letter was excellent,” he says. “The examination of hypocrisy and alienation far surpassed our class discussion. You wrote as though you became both Hester and Dimmesdale. This is fine writing, Rinnie.” He taps the scroll of paper that is my essay in his outstretched palm.
“I liked the story. It shows the cost of breaking rules, even unwritten ones—like loyalty. I, I mean, Hester’s life might have been different if she had told who Pearl’s father was. At least she wouldn’t have been alone.”
“Loyalty can be a tricky thing,” Mr. Heuland says. “Especially when it is compounded with love, or duty. Hester became a cripple by her choice.”
